smiled. ‘My grandfather always said revenge was a dish best eaten cold.’
‘I find that a nauseating idea.’
‘Is that going to be your new refuge—self-righteousness?’ He sounded amused. ‘It won’t cut any ice with me.’
‘I’m sure it won’t.’ She put up a hand in a revealingly nervous gesture, and smoothed her hair back over her ear. ‘I suppose you’re here to discuss your terms. I can’t say when Simon will be available—’
‘He doesn’t need to be.’ The grey eyes glinted up at her. ‘As you’re already well aware, the settlement I have in mind involves just the two of us—you and me. And I suggest, once again, that you sit down.’
She said thickly, ‘I prefer to stand. Say what you have to say, and go.’
He shrugged, and rose to his feet in one lithe, controlled movement. Like some jungle animal, she thought, flinching inwardly, flexing itself before the kill.
‘I told you my terms two years ago, Joanna. They haven’t changed. I want you.’ He looked at her levelly. ‘Come to me and I’ll write off Simon’s personal obligations to me, and his bookie friend.’
Joanna stood rigidly, feeling the colour drain out of her face. It was like standing in the dock, she thought dazedly, knowing you were innocent, but hearing a life sentence pronounced just the same. She wanted to scream aloud, to hit out in anger and revulsion, but a small, cold inner voice warned her to keep cool—keep talking—keep bargaining.
She lifted her chin. ‘What about this house—our home? Do you intend to take that too?’
‘Originally, yes,’ he said. ‘But if you behave with sufficient—er—generosity to me, I might be prepared to match it, and leave it in Chalfont hands for your father’s lifetime at least.’ He smiled at her sardonically. ‘Its fate rests entirely with you, beauty.’
She bit her lip, her whole being cringing from the implications in his words. ‘And the Craft Company? Will you leave that alone too?’
‘I think you’re beginning to overestimate the price of your charms,’ Cal Blackstone said drily. ‘No, my investment in the Craft Company stays—as insurance, if you like, for your continuing good behaviour.’
Joanna closed her eyes for a moment. She said evenly, ‘I suppose there’s no point in appealing to your better nature. Reminding you that there are normal standards of decency.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he said laconically. He glanced up at the portrait over the fireplace and his expression hardened. ‘At least I’m not evicting you without notice, throwing you on to the street.’
‘And if I tell you that I do have standards—that I have my pride and my self-respect? And that I’d rather starve in the gutter than accept any part of your revolting terms?’
He shrugged again. ‘Then that can be quite easily arranged,’ he returned. ‘The choice is yours. But I strongly advise you to think my offer over. You’ve got twenty-four hours.’
‘I don’t need twenty-four seconds,’ she said bitingly. ‘You can do your worst, Mr Blackstone, and go to hell!’
‘I shall probably end there, Mrs Bentham,’ he said too courteously. ‘But first I mean to order that independent audit I mentioned into the Craft Company’s accounts.’ He paused. ‘Simon may well find himself facing more than a bankruptcy court. How will the Chalfont pride cope with that, I wonder?’
‘I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t do such a thing.’ Her voice shook with the force of her conviction.
‘Ask him,’ he said. ‘Some time during the next twenty-four hours. Then call me with your final answer.’
‘You’ve had all the answer you’re getting, you bastard!’ she said. ‘I’ll see you damned before I do what you want!’
He gave her a sardonic look, as he retrieved the papers from the coffee-table and slipped them back into his pocket. ‘Don’t count on it, beauty. I promise one thing—when you do call, I won’t say that I told you so.’
Knuckles pressed to her mouth, Joanna stood like a statue as he made his way across the room to the door. As it closed behind him, she bent and snatched up a cut glass posy bowl, hurling it with all the force of her arm at the solid panels.
‘The swine!’ she sobbed, as it shattered. ‘Oh, God, the unutterable bloody swine!’
She was like a cat on hot bricks for the rest of the day waiting for Simon to return. It took all her self-control not to drive over to the nursing home and confront him there. She was sorely tempted, too, to drive over to the Craft Company and do her own spot check of the books.
But she discarded the idea. Such action would be bound to provoke just the kind of comment she wanted to avoid. And if, by the remotest chance, there was something even slightly amiss … She caught at herself. That was the kind of poisonous reptile Cal Blackstone was, she raged inwardly. Sowing discord and distrust wherever he went.
She couldn’t deny that Simon had been all kinds of a fool, but she couldn’t believe he was also a thief. She wouldn’t believe it.
‘There’s got to be some way out of this mess,’ she said aloud, through gritted teeth, as she paced the length and breadth of the drawing-room. ‘There’s got to be. Together we’ll think of something. We have to!’
She swallowed convulsively as that same small voice in her head reminded her of the sheer magnitude of what was threatening them all. The loss of their home, the destruction of their remaining business venture, and personal disgrace for Simon—and all at the worst possible time, if there was ever a good time for such things to happen, she acknowledged wryly.
It was no good telling herself that it was all Simon’s own fault, and he’d have to find some remedy himself. She couldn’t leave him to sink if she could help him to swim. But she couldn’t sacrifice herself either.
Cal Blackstone’s words rang like hammer blows inside her brain. ‘I want you. Come to me …’
He’s just offered me the ultimate insult, she told herself, by presuming I’d even consider such a degrading suggestion. He’s misjudged me completely.
Yet he’d summed up some of her past reactions with disturbing accuracy, she recalled unwillingly. His comments about her marriage to Martin had been too close to the mark for comfort.
She shivered. What was she saying? She’d loved Martin, of course she had. He’d been sweet and safe and there, and she’d thought that was enough. She’d convinced herself that it was.
Only it wasn’t, she thought wretchedly. How could it be? And it was disaster for both of us.
On the day of his funeral, she’d stood in the small bleak churchyard in the conventional black dress of the widow, feeling drained of emotion, totally objective, as if all this tragedy were happening to some other person. She could even remember being thankful that the demure veiling on her equally conventional hat concealed the fact that she was completely tearless.
Then she’d looked up and seen Cal Blackstone staring at her. He’d been standing on the edge of the
